the a
Pavel's Petrof, the A above middle C, flat since the October he died.
I called someone. Mr. Dvořák, the man from the voicemail with the disastrous piano, gave me the number of a young tuner who learned from Pavel. He came on Thursday and fixed it in fifteen minutes and wouldn't take any money.
Now the piano sounds like anyone's piano. I cried, then I played the Smetana properly, then I closed the lid.
Saturday night, the twenty-fifth of June.